So, without stoppin' to change, or even sheddin' the mitts, I walks into the front office, to discover this elegant party in the stream-line cutaway pacin' restless up and down the room. Yes, he sure is some imposin' to look at, with his pearl gray spats, and the red necktie blazin' brilliant under the close-clipped crop of Grand Duke whiskers. I don't know what there is special about a set of frosted face shubb'ry that sort of suggests bank presidents and so on, but somehow they do. Them and the long, thin nose gives him a pluty, distinguished look, in spite of the shifty eyes and the weak mouth lines. But I ain't in a mood to be impressed. "Well?" says I snappy. I expect my appearin' in a cut-out jersey, with my shoulder muscles still bunched, must have jarred him a little; for he lifts his eyebrows doubtful and asks, "Er--Professor McCabe, is it?" "Uh-huh," says I. "What'll it be?" "My name," says he, "is Steele." "I know," says I. "Snug fit too, I judge." He flushes quick and stiffens. "Do you mean to infer, Sir, that----" "You're on," says I. "The minute I heard your name I placed you for the smooth party that tried to unload a lot of that phony Radio stock on Mrs. Benny Sherwood. Wanted to euchre her out of the twenty thousand life insurance she got when Benny took the booze count last winter, eh? Well, it happens she's a friend of Mrs. McCabe, and it was through me your little scheme was blocked. Now I guess we ought to be real well acquainted." But I might have known such crude stuff wouldn't get under the hide of a polished article like J. Bayard. He only shrugs his shoulders and smiles sarcastic. "The pleasure seems to be all mine," says he. "But as you choose. Who am I to contend with the defender of the widow and the orphan that between issuing a stock and trading in it there is a slight difference? However deeply I am distressed by your private opinion of me, I shall try to----" "Ah, ditch the sarcasm," says I, "and spring your game! What is it this trip, a wire-tappin' scheme, or just plain green goods?" "You flatter me," says J. Bayard. "No, my business of the moment is not to appropriate any of the princely profits of your--er--honest toil," and he stops for another of them acetic-acid smiles. "Yes," says I, "it is a batty way of gettin' money--workin' for it, eh? But go on. Whatcher mean you lost your dog?" "I--er--I beg pardon?" says he. "Ah, get down to brass tacks!" says I. "You ain't payin' a society call, I take it?" He gets that. And what do you guess comes next? Well, he hands over a note. It's from a lawyer's office, askin' him to call at two P.M. that day to meet with me, as it reads, "and discuss a matter of mutual interest and advantage." It's signed "R. K. Judson, Attorney." "Well, couldn't you wait?" says I. "It's only eleven-thirty now, you know." "It is merely a question," says Steele, "of whether or not I shall go at all."